Brothers on a Hotel Bed
by TheVerbalThing ComesAndGoes
Summary: He always gives her what she wants. Eventually. Declan/Fiona. Sequel to "Great Romances of the 20th Century".


Brothers on a Hotel Bed

Summary: He always gives her what she wants. Eventually. Declan/Fiona. Sequel to "Great Romances of the 20th Century."

Disclaimer: don't own the characters, title is a song by Deathcab for Cutie.

A/N: it's been a while & i'm a bit rusty but I needed to get this out. also, reading "Great Romances" before this isn't exactly necessary (though it is highly encouraged ;) but since this is set almost directly after that one, there are some references back to it. enjoy, read, and review. :]

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**illicitus** — forbidden; illegitimate, prohibited

Fiona isn't entirely sure what day it is — it might be Friday, it could be Thursday; she's had a lot to drink tonight so she honestly doesn't really care either way — when she realizes what is happening between her and Declan, the gravity of their situation, and how much it is affecting him (and, subsequently, affecting her by extension).

They are sitting in the backseat of their parents' Lincoln Town Car, her bare shoulder pressed against the comfortingly soft fabric of Declan's white collared shirt, his loosened silk tie draped around his neck, when she comes to the conclusion that she wants nothing more than to continue to have more moments like this one. (It is also the moment she realizes there is no possible way that she will allow what happened between her and Declan over a week ago to remain as a onetime thing.)

It's early, a little past nine o'clock, but she and Declan always come in a separate car than their parents following the unspoken agreement that they will make an obligatory appearance for the cameras at whatever event they're required to attend, and then leave once they've officially held up their end up the bargain after one round of drinks and mandatory mingling.

Their driver is on yet another one of his smoke breaks, which typically means that he won't be back for another hour or so, and their parents…well their parents are probably well on their way to being passed out in the Vanderlin's guest house. An hour before this party, Fiona got into a bottle of Kahlúa, mixed it with a bottle of Coca Cola and she was already slowly beginning to feel its effects as Declan pulled her into the backseat beside him, his hand comfortably warm in hers.

Lust and Kahlúa are coursing through her veins, and she can't stop thinking about the last time she and Declan were really alone like this. She has never really considered the fact that there exists a world out there beyond the two of them; she likes having him to herself, like this. They haven't talked about anything that happened in the backseat of his car, or what occurred the week preceding it. But, she does admit aloud that she loves it when it's just the two of them. She's never needed anyone else, and he's always known that. "I hate being around anyone but you," she confesses, running her finger along his jawline, lips falling into a slight pout.

"I do believe that is the Kahlúa talking," he dismisses, turning to face her, eyes focusing on hers. There is mirth in his gaze and a hint of something else - she'll have that 'something else' figured out by the time the night is over, she's sure.

"No, no it isn't and you know it isn't," Fiona argues, though not at all harshly. She looks down at his hand, mere millimeters away from her thigh. She crosses her legs, watches the look of guilt etch its way onto his features as his fingertips caress her skin. The guilt transforms into an odd frown-smile, warring with the blatant lust in his gaze, but when she moves his hand to the top of her thigh, Declan lets it remain where it is.

He always gives her what she wants. (Eventually.)

"Are we ever going to talk about it?" she whispers, leaning towards him. She rests her palm flat against his chest and feels the familiar thrum of his heartbeat quicken its pace underneath her touch.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because," he answers vaguely. "We don't have to talk about everything,Fi."

She scoffs at that, surprised he's even able to say that with a straight face. "Yes, we do. We shouldn't, but we do. ...You're everything to me, you know," Fiona finds herself confessing quietly.

"I know." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Because it never should have happened."

"_Why_?"

He looks at her pointedly, his hazel eyes never wavering from hers. "Come on, Fi. You know why."

"Of course." She rolls her eyes. "You really do care too much about what other people think."

"Like you don't?"

"Not as much as you do."

"Didn't realize we were holding a contest." Declan pauses when she starts to move away from him and Fiona notices. (And she smiles to herself, just a little, because it is good to know the kind of effect she can have on him.) "What are you doing?"

Fiona looks over her shoulder at the partition window, double-checking that it's rolled all the way up. She slides a finger beneath the opening of Declan's collared shirt, feels his pulse increase under her touch, and deftly undoes the top button without hesitating. She's never understood why he feels the need to button his shirts all the way to the top, anyway. "Showing my appreciation for tinted windows," she answers simply. Fiona leans forward, slowly, giving him all the time in the world to change his mind (even though she knows he won't) and brushes her lips against his. Her hands fall to the back of his neck, desperate to pull him that much closer. Fiona tilts her head, feels his tongue pressing against the seam of her lips and she parts them eagerly, without any second-guessing. A moan escapes him and, just as Fiona is running a finger along the outline of Declan's belt buckle, he pulls away, shaking his head.

"We can't do this." He rests the palm of his left hand flat against her breastbone, fingers curling around the pendant necklace hanging from her neck. He pushes her hair behind her ear, but doesn't pull his hand away; he leans forward instead, resting his forehead against hers, their lips never touching but still just close enough. "God. You're beautiful," he whispers.

She smirks. "I know."

Things have changed. Fiona does know that it is on a warm Saturday night when she comes to this realization.

To say that Fiona knows Declan like the back of her hand would be an extremely vast understatement. And she knows that, lately, he has been feeling guilty. Overwhelmed, possibly, by an emotion that has seemed to have (thankfully) surpassed her depth completely.

Ever since that Tuesday afternoon during her study hall, when she tracked him down and found him scampering off to his car - like the coward he loves to pretend he isn't - their relationship has shifted and changed into something else (not different, but certainly not the same as it used to be). In spite of the fact that this is exactly what Fiona wanted, she knows her brother is a creature of habit. And she can always rely on the fact that in times of stress, or whenever Declan is feeling any emotion that he's unfamiliar or uncomfortable with, he hides.

(He'll deny this, of course, but they are intrinsically linked; she knows him better than she will ever know anyone else.)

And Declan has always chosen to hide behind excuses—which she hates, he knows, because she has gotten enough excuses from their parents to last a lifetime—and his current excuse is flimsy at best: a suddenly undying commitment to Degrassi's seemingly constantly flailing drama club that has been taking up all of his time lately.

Fiona knows that if she approaches him when he's like this, terrified, hiding, then it will only make their situation worse. And so, she doesn't. _Her_ default form of keeping distance has always been more literal, more dramatic, and she goes onto the roof of their apartment building to think.

And it is there, on this night that he comes to find her. (She is not afraid to admit that she kind of knew he would come after her.)

"So, how's the play coming along?" she asks snidely, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised.

He sighs. "Unoriginal and uninspired."

Fiona smirks at his undying well of high expectations. "It's a public high school play, Declan, not Broadway."

"Even still. Everyone has their limits and I'm almost certain I've reached mine."

She refuses to show him any sympathy. "Well, it was your choice to get involved. Although I'm not sure I understand why you would volunteer for an after school activity that's akin to Chinese water torture."

Declan shrugs, raising and dropping one shoulder in an uncharacteristic show of awkwardness and Fiona knows instantly that he isn't going to respond to that statement. But he doesn't need to, because they both know why he did it: to give him space and time away from her. "I'll never understand why you like it up here so much."

"It's the view," she replies sarcastically.

"And?"

He knows her too well. "The distance from oppression."

"Dramatic," Declan notes with a wry smile.

"It suits me, don't you think?"

"...Could you step back from the edge? It's making me more nervous than I'm comfortable admitting."

"When are you comfortable admitting that you feel any kind of emotion?"

"Just take a step back, Fiona. Please." It is not a word that he uses often and she is (almost) impressed.

"As you wish." She takes a careful step backward, knowing Declan is watching her all the while.

She turns to face him fully, for the first time since he's come up here, and can't seem to resist taking another step closer to him, resting her hands on his shoulders and watching the way his body (and hers) responds to the proximity of her presence. It's fascinating. "So, are you done avoiding me?"

"Are you done trying to entice me?"

Her fingers toy with the hem of his shirt and Fiona uses it to pull him that much closer to her. "I don't have to try," she whispers.

She is lying down on her bed, reading _The Chomsky-Foucault Debate on Human Nature_ and absentmindedly eating a bowl of cherries. It's late, and she is dressed in nothing more than a baby doll nightie; her feet are cold and bare because she is stubbornly refusing to put on anything else. She doesn't turn her head when she hears the knock in her doorway. Declan, of course. (Her parents never knock, not for anyone.) He comes into her room without preamble, sitting beside her, but keeping a respectable distance.

"Your feet are cold."

"So warm them up."

He grins but shakes his head. "...So Holly J. Sinclair is having a party."

Fiona frowns at the mention of the other girl's name. "Who?"

"The girl who reads the video announcements each morning." Off her blank look he adds, "Student body president? Jane's friend. Jane and I used to..."

Fiona sits up at that, crosses her legs and places the book in her lap. "I know what you and Jane used to do. How is this Sinclair girl's party relevant to our life?"

Declan hesitates; Fiona wonders if it has more to do with the strap of her nightgown slipping off her shoulder or what he's about to tell her. She doesn't fix the strap. "I told Jane that I would go."

She tilts her head to the side, trying to figure out what the expression in Declan's eyes will tell her. "Now why would you do a thing like that?"

"Holly J. isn't exactly well liked and apparently the promise of the presence of the Coynes draws a crowd."

"And?"

Declan slides the strap back up on her shoulder. "_And_ Jane and I are friends now."

Fiona scoffs at that one. That is the line he always uses in the wake following the dissolution of his 'relationships' and it never lasts; she's certain this time won't be the exception. "Sure you are."

"We are," he insists. "...You should come with me."

"Why, Declan?" she sighs more than asks the question, because suddenly, he isn't afraid of having no space in between them, and the bridge of his nose is brushing against hers and his hand is wrapped around her wrist.

"Because I want you to." (She isn't the only in their family who's fluent and brilliantly skilled in emotional blackmail.)

Fiona leans in toward her vanity mirror, so close that the tip of her nose is pressing against the glass, close enough to see the faint spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Fiona balances herself by setting her palm flat on top of the bureau, her knee pressed firmly against a top drawer.

She's reaching for a tube of pink lipstick she loves - _Patisserie_, a MAC Euristocrats II Collection - when she feels the mood in her bedroom shift, and becomes aware of a presence behind her. Her body warms from a seemingly automatic heat, making her cheeks flush, and Fiona knows, without even needing to turn around, that it's Declan standing in her doorway. She knows his presence is why she licks her lips then parts them slightly before pressing the lipstick slowly to her bottom lip and then takes all the time in the world to apply a coat to her top lip.

Fiona smiles when she's done, satisfied with her appearance, but mostly because when she turns around, Declan is standing almost directly behind her. "So, you ready?"

(She recognizes the look in his eyes, knows trouble when she sees it because she is more than certain that it is a reflection of her own gaze.)

Declan's hand falls to the small of her back, without thinking, she knows, but before he can pull away and retreat, Fiona grabs his wrist, keeping him there. "I've been trying to figure it out...and I still can't understand your sudden fascination with the drab social lives of our unfortunate peers."

"I made a promise," he insists, his eyes falling to her lips.

"And so naturally, you aim to keep it? Since when?" But she already knows what he is going to say because, suddenly, Declan has decided that the promises he's made to a former conquest-turned-superficial-friendship about attending some pathetic house party is worth keeping. Fiona knows the real reason: their father is out of town for the week on business, and their mother, naturally, has gone with him to make his mind - and wandering hands - remain on business, and only business. And it is easier to resist temptation in crowded room than in their empty house filled with nothing but possibilities. (But she is so fucking tired of resisting and pretending and holding up pretenses; that is the definition of what it means to be a Coyne and she and Declan have a week, _one week_, to just let go of all that. And she wants to let go. She needs to let go before she loses her mind, screams until her throat is dry and there is nothing left of her voice except for a squeak.)

"Since last Tuesday," he replies quietly. He is leaning forward, a look in his eyes that's eerily similar to the gaze she saw reflected there over a week ago. Fiona realizes she's been holding her breath when Declan takes a step back, out of her space, and she lets go of his wrist and exhales, heavily.

"Ready now."

"Promise me you'll behave, Fi."

She smiles wryly, though she's aware that it's probably obvious that her heart isn't in it. "Don't I always?"

The party is actually held at Jane Vaughn's house - which would be put to shame if compared to even their family's modest summer home in The Hamptons. Declan was right about their presence drawing a crowd, though Fiona is more interested in the fact that she can feel him watching her out of the corner of her eye but can still feel the physical distance he's choosing to put between them.

She realizes that she feels scared as much as he feels guilty, but her fears stem from the possibility that his guilt is wrapped around nothing but regrets. Fiona finds him contemplating the contents of Jane's medicine cabinet, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"What are you doing?"

He shakes his head and closes the door. "...I don't - I don't know."

"Just stop _hiding_, Declan."

"You're all I have," he insists as she frames his head between her hands, momentarily resting her forehead against his, trying to ease the turmoil reflected in his eyes.

"I know."

She's only here because of him (and her inability to say no to anything he asks of her)— and reminiscing about the last time he'd allowed himself within three feet of her, in the backseat of his car. She locks the door and climbs onto the counter next to the sink. Fiona doesn't hesitate to unbuckle his belt and slide it through the loops of his pants as he stands between her legs.

"We can't..." he trails off as she pushes his hand lower, down her stomach and Fiona breathes in deep when he doesn't stop her movements.

"We can do whatever we want to. _I_ want to." She moves her face closer to his, her lips brushing against his ear. "Do you want to?"

She rests her knees against his hips and relaxes when she realizes he hasn't pulled away from her - even as she dips her hand down the front of his pants, wrapping her fingers around him - and is slowly starting to move his fingers inside her. (It is all the answer she needs.)

He wants to.

She crawls into his bed in the middle of the next night, both of them reaching for the honesty that often comes with the vulnerability of the darkness.

He knows she's been sad and worried, that some days she'll get like this and he knows that his hurt and hers are one in the same. She holds his face in her palms, running her thumb along his bottom lip until he looks at her. She kisses him, not at all slow or chaste or hesitant, but meaningful and filled with need. His hands sit at her waist, hesitant. (It's one of those rare times when they're on completely different pages.) She moves his hands, places them lower, raises the hem of her shirt so his fingertips are on her bare skin. "Touch me, Declan. You can touch me."

Upon waking, she holds her breath, keeps her eyes closed and waits for the familiar torrent of emotions to engulf her: shame, guilt, disgust, sorrow, but underneath it all…satisfaction. An immense satisfaction that this was theirs— theirs and no one else's—and that every part of him belongs to and with her and that every part of her belongs to and with him. They are blood, they are soul mates; they are everything. There is nothing she wouldn't do for him.

"I wish…"

Fiona exhales deeply; her chest brushes against his, their stomachs rise and fall in unison. He hovers above her, careful to put most of his weight on his forearms as she shifts her hips to better accommodate him. "I wish we could do this more often."

He brushes her face with kisses; nose, chin, cheeks, and finally her lips—allowing her a brief taste of her and him, them, to linger on her tongue. She sighs.

"Me too."

She knows 'perverse' would not even begin to describe their circumstances and that they are both in over their heads. They are in an impossible situation, can go neither forwards or backwards- not that she would want to. He has told her, on more than one occasion, that he has no idea who he is without her. But he is her life and she could never begin to think of a world that exists beyond the two of them.


End file.
